It was one of those mornings where everything felt off. I’d woken up late, my phone was already buzzing with passive-aggressive work emails, and to top it all, the milk had gone sour. In Austin, that meant a 10-minute drive to the nearest Indian store if I wanted real chai — the kind that doesn’t come in a tea bag with a name like “Bombay Bliss” or “Masala Sunrise.” I was cranky, caffeine-deprived, and dangerously close to starting my day with plain hot water and despair.
But then, in an act of mild rebellion and pure necessity, I decided to make a version of chai anyway — with oat milk, half an inch of leftover ginger, and the dregs of a nearly empty red Dabur chai masala tin that I’d brought back from my last trip to Mumbai. I expected nothing. And yet, somehow, that cup of chai saved me.
The Sacred Ritual of Chai
See, chai isn’t just a beverage. Not in our homes. It’s a pause button. A minor miracle in a cup. Chai forgives you for sleeping in. Chai doesn’t judge your inbox. Chai makes you believe, even for five minutes, that you’re not completely failing at life.
Growing up in Mumbai, the first sounds I remember in the morning weren’t alarm clocks — they were the whistle of the pressure cooker and the swirl of milk boiling over. The smell of chai would drift from the kitchen, mixing with incense, newspaper ink, and the distant clatter of BEST buses outside. It was the aroma of being held, of being reminded that the world could wait till your cup was empty.
Back then, my mother made chai like she was performing a ceremony. Boil the water with ginger first. Let the tea leaves steep until they were dark enough to stain your soul. Add milk, sugar, masala — in that sacred order. She had no tolerance for shortcut methods or microwave abominations. “Chai banane ka tareeka hota hai,” she would say. There is a way to make chai.
Emergency Chai, Emotional CPR
That terrible morning in Austin, I didn’t follow any of those rules. I dumped everything into a saucepan like a reckless college student making instant noodles. I stirred it lazily while staring into space, wondering if I’d ever feel like a functioning adult again. And then, when I took the first sip — I kid you not — my entire spine relaxed.
It wasn’t perfect chai. The oat milk was too sweet, the ginger too sharp, and the masala nearly gone. But it hit all the right emotional pressure points. My hands warmed up. My breathing slowed down. The day didn’t feel like a disaster anymore — just slightly delayed. I turned on my laptop and dealt with those emails with a little more grace, a little less existential dread. That’s what chai does. It doesn’t change the world. It changes you, just enough to keep going.
Chai as Therapy (Cheaper and Tastier)
Over the years, I’ve had better chai. Stronger brews, creamier textures, fancier additions like star anise and lemongrass. But none of them ever meant as much as that one salvaged cup. Because chai, like comfort, doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to arrive when you need it most.
There’s a reason chai is offered to guests, to neighbors, to electricians, to plumbers, to anyone who shows up at your doorstep in India. It’s not just hospitality — it’s a gesture that says: sit down, breathe, we’re human. No matter how terrible your morning, how tangled your thoughts, how burnt your toast — there’s chai.
Every Cup Has a Story
Now, whenever I stir a pot of chai — no matter how basic the ingredients — I think of that morning. I think of my mom in her cotton saree, flipping through the newspaper as the kettle whistles. I think of railway station chai in cutting glasses, too hot to drink but too tempting to wait. I think of monsoon evenings, when chai and pakoras felt like protection from everything wrong with the world.
And most of all, I think of how a small act — boiling water, adding leaves, waiting — can pull you out of a downward spiral. Gently. Silently. One sip at a time.
That morning was still rough. But it didn’t break me. Because the chai showed up. And sometimes, that’s all it takes.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
